"What are you afraid of? Do you have something to hide?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," Regina answered, "and I have nothing to hide. I just don't want to talk to you unless I have my lawyer with me."

With that, she walked proudly away, entered the vestibule of her building, and trudged upstairs. She was shaking, not because she was concealing anything, but because of the scenario that had just taken place: two law enforcement agents, men who towered over her relatively tiny frame of five feet, four inches, coming at her in a confrontational way in the street.

Regina's political activities-any or all of which could be considered "subversive," taking into account the near hysterical anti-Communist climate of the day-were fodder for the FBI: her six years in Moscow, her mercurial ex-husband in Chile, her work at defense plants, her a.s.sociation with rabble-rousers, her affiliation with left-wing political organizations, and her active partic.i.p.ation in protests-such as a vigil she joined on the night of the execution of the convicted spies Ethel and Julius Rosenberg. Had she done anything illegal? Were any of her friends spies? She questioned herself, and then called her lawyer, before telling Joanie and Bobby what had happened.

To her relief, there were no further overt visits from the FBI. What Regina didn't know, however, was that since 1942 the Justice Department had suspected her of being a Soviet espionage agent. Consequently, there was a sweeping investigation taking place of her activities, past and present, spearheaded by FBI director J. Edgar Hoover.

The confidential FBI report on Regina dramatically points up the degree to which McCarthy-inspired paranoia gripped America at that time: SECREt.i.t is to be noted that subject is a well-educated, widely traveled intelligent woman who has for years been a.s.sociated with communists and persons with procommunist leanings. She would appear to be a person who would be ideologically motivated to be of a.s.sistance to the Russians. In view of the foregoing and in light of her recent contact of an official of the Soviet Emba.s.sy, it is desired that this case be re-opened and that investigation be inst.i.tuted in an effort to determine if subject has in the past or may presently be engaged in activities inimical to the interest of the United States. Investigation of Fischer is not to be limited to developing additional data concerning her recent contact of x.x.xx.x.x. It is desired that the investigation of subject be most searching and pointed towards ascertaining the nature of her present activity and the ident.i.ty of her a.s.sociate.

The telephone in the Fischer home was tapped. Undercover agents rifled through Joan Fischer's records at Brooklyn College. Regina was shadowed. Her fellow nurses and neighbors were questioned. Her high school and college records were examined, and her former teachers and administrators were questioned. Even the second wife of Jacob Wender, Bobby's grandfather, was investigated. The investigation would continue for almost a half century and produce some 750 pages of reports, costing the American taxpayers hundreds of thousands-if not millions-of dollars, all ending with a whimper, nary a bang, since nothing definitive was ever found about any espionage activity on Regina's part. "My mother," said Joan Fischer, "is a professional protester." Other than that, the FBI eventually considered Regina Fischer harmless to the security of the United States.

An ironic twist to this red-hunting saga developed when the FBI learned from an informer that Regina had been "kicked out" of the Communist Party-if indeed she'd ever been a member; the informer claimed she'd been active from 1949 to 1951. Supposedly, she'd been ejected for failing to be a "faithful Party member." If that was, in fact, the case, the Bureau reasoned that Regina might be eager to retaliate against the Communists, by being "cooperative and furnishing information regarding persons who were active in the Party and other current information she may possess." If the Bureau had acted on this notion, Regina Fischer might have actually become a counteragent, a spy, for the U.S. government. It would have been a suitable career for her, considering her penchant for intrigue, politics, and travel. No approach to her was ever made, however.

Bobby kept telling his mother that he wanted to go to Russia to try his hand against the best players in the world. Besides his trip to Cuba and his partic.i.p.ation in a tournament in Canada when he was twelve, he'd never been out of the country, and Regina, a peripatetic, almost obsessive traveler, was eager for her son to go abroad. But where was the travel money to come from?

She sent a letter directly to Premier Nikita Khrushchev, asking him to extend an invitation to Bobby for the World Youth Festival. While waiting for a reply, Bobby applied for a pa.s.sport and then submitted an application for a visa to enter Russia. A year later the visa request was granted, and all that was needed was the money for air transportation and expenses. The idea was that Bobby would spend the summer, or part of it, in Russia so as to train before playing in the Interzonal, which was to be held in Yugoslavia.

Agents and informers continued to spy on the Fischers, and the idea that Big Brother could always be watching haunted Regina. Such continued suspicion on her part-which had a valid basis-greatly influenced her children.

She was worried that the FBI might come again, perhaps when she wasn't at home, and begin questioning Bobby. If they were trying to build a case against her, any sc.r.a.p of information that Bobby might give them could possibly be used against her. She began to train him as to what to say should the investigators appear: "Bobby, if they come, and ask you any any questions-even your age or where you go to school-just say, ' questions-even your age or where you go to school-just say, 'I have nothing to say to you.' Don't change the words; do you understand? 'I have nothing to say to you.'"

She made him repeat the phrase over and over again until she was sure he had it right. In retrospect, Bobby said that it was probable that she had learned the phrase from other people who had been investigated by the FBI, as the most effective tactic. "I think it was terrible that they might have questioned a little boy: I was only ten or twelve at the time." As it developed, Bobby was never questioned, but the fear had been implanted.

As a further protection for Bobby, Regina bought fairly expensive leather covers for his Russian chess books so that the t.i.tles could not be read by agents or possible informants and cause trouble for him as he was studying the books while traveling to and from Brooklyn on the subway.

One morning when Bobby was in geometry cla.s.s, a student from the princ.i.p.al's office appeared with a note for Bobby's teacher. It said that Bobby had been invited to be a contestant on the television show I've Got a Secret I've Got a Secret at four-thirty that afternoon. It was the week after his fifteenth birthday. The show was a guessing game to determine a contestant's "secret," in this case not that Bobby or his mother might be a Communist, but that he was United States Chess Champion. On the broadcast, looking shy and fearful, he held up a mock newspaper specially printed by the show, with a headline that blared, at four-thirty that afternoon. It was the week after his fifteenth birthday. The show was a guessing game to determine a contestant's "secret," in this case not that Bobby or his mother might be a Communist, but that he was United States Chess Champion. On the broadcast, looking shy and fearful, he held up a mock newspaper specially printed by the show, with a headline that blared, TEENAGER'S STRATEGY DEFEATS ALL COMERS TEENAGER'S STRATEGY DEFEATS ALL COMERS. When the emcee mentioned that his young guest, introduced as "Mister X," was from Brooklyn, someone shouted "Hooray!" and Bobby beamed. When he was asked by a panel member whether what he did, as his secret, made people happy, he quipped: "It made me me happy," sparking appreciative laughter from the audience (who were in on the secret). Bobby stumped the panel. happy," sparking appreciative laughter from the audience (who were in on the secret). Bobby stumped the panel.

Determined to get Bobby to Moscow, Regina had appealed to the producers to help her come up with a ticket not only for her son but also for his sister Joan to accompany him. Perhaps through their phone tap, the FBI learned about the Moscow trip. They dispatched a young-looking undercover agent, posing as a reporter for a college newspaper, to "interview" the public relations representatives at the Goodson-Todman Productions, producers of I've Got a Secret I've Got a Secret. The agent remained throughout the broadcast but did not reveal his true ident.i.ty.

Since Sabena Airlines was one of the show's sponsors, it was agreed that two round-trip tickets would be given to Bobby as a promotional gift. Without his knowledge, and much to his delight, at the end of the broadcast he was given the tickets to Russia, with a stopover in Belgium, Sabena's home country. So ebullient was he over finally being able to get to the country of his dreams, he tripped with youthful awkwardness on the microphone wire while making his exit from the stage, but managed to keep his balance. At the show's conclusion the FBI immediately phoned their contact in Moscow to make sure Bobby's activities were monitored while he was behind the Iron Curtain.

Someone at the Manhattan Chess Club asked Bobby what he'd do if he were invited to a state dinner while in Moscow, where he'd have to wear a tie; Bobby had never been seen wearing one. "If I have to wear a tie, I won't go," he answered honestly.

It was the first time he'd been in an airplane. Bobby and Joan had a three-day stopover in Brussels and visited Expo 58, one of the greatest international fairs of all time ("The eighth wonder of the world," Bobby wrote to Jack Collins, describing the 335-foot Atomium monument whose nine steep spheres formed the shape of a cell of an iron crystal). While the Belgians were sampling Coca-Cola for the first time, Bobby, avoiding Joan's watchful eye, drank too many bottles of Belgian beer and the next day experienced his first hangover. Nevertheless, he played some seven-minute games-which he won-with the tall and elegant Count Alberic O'Kelly de Galway, an international grandmaster. Bobby also ate as much soft ice cream-another first at the fair-as he could consume. After a few days of fun and education in Brussels, the Fischers were ready to leave, but not before a minor fracas occurred. When checking in, Bobby had rudely voiced objections to the hotel staff over the accommodations they were to have (he didn't want to share a room with his sister), and as they were checking out he was severely criticized by the management, who'd given up the room as a complimentary gesture and were short of s.p.a.ce due to the fair. The self-confident fifteen-year-old paid no heed to their discontent and discourteously stormed out.

Before boarding the plane to Russia, Bobby plugged cotton into his ears to reduce the pressure (which had bothered him on the trip from New York to Brussels) and also to block out engine noise so that he could quietly work out variations on his pocket chess set.

Met at the Moscow airport by Lev Abramov, the head of the chess section of the USSR, and by a guide from Intourist, Joan and Bobby were ushered to Moscow's finest hotel, the National. It was an apt choice, since one of the Bolshevik leaders who worked out of there after the Revolution of 1917 was Vladimir Lenin, an active chess player who fostered a continuing interest in the game among the Russian people.

The Fischers enjoyed the amenities of a relatively opulent suite, with two bedrooms and an un.o.bstructed view-across Mokhovaya Street-of the Kremlin, Red Square, and the splendor of the towers of St. Basil's. As part of the celebrity treatment, Bobby was also given a car, driver, and interpreter. Three months before, the Russians had feted another young American: twenty-three-year old Van Cliburn, who'd won the Soviet Union's International Tchaikovsky piano compet.i.tion and, in so doing, helped momentarily temper the Cold War rivalry of the two countries. Bobby didn't expect to earn the same acclaim, nor did he think he'd melt any diplomatic ice. Nonetheless, Regina thought he should be afforded equal respect and attention. Although many chess players believed that Bobby could emerge as America's answer to the Sputnik, Regina was thinking in more practical terms: She'd read that Van Cliburn had called his mother in Texas each night while he was in Moscow and as a perk wasn't charged for the international telephone call. "Call me," she wrote to Bobby. "It's on the house." He didn't.

His respect for the Soviet players, from what he knew of their games, was immense, and at first, the reality of being in Russia was like being in chess heaven. He wanted to see how the game was taught and played at the state-supported Pioneer Palaces. He wanted to read and purchase Russian chess literature and visit the clubs and parks where chess was played. But mostly he wanted to duel with the best in the world. His mission was to play as many masters as possible and to emulate the Soviets' training regimen for the Yugoslav tournament. Fortune, however, seemed to have other plans.

There was no way that the Soviet chess regime would allow an American to observe their training methods or to share in their chess secrets-especially when the very same players Fischer hoped to train with would be competing against him in a few weeks. The Soviet chess establishment thought of Bobby as a novinka novinka-a novelty-but, also, someone ultimately to be feared. They certainly weren't going to aid his attempt to defeat them at their own national pastime.

An itinerary and schedule were established for the Fischers, which included a tour of the city, a sightseeing introduction to the buildings and galleries of the Kremlin, and a visit to the Bolshoi Ballet, the Moscow Circus, and various museums. For Bobby, it was a chance to gorge himself on Russian history and culture. He had little interest, though, in such figures as Ivan the Terrible or Peter the Great or Joseph Stalin or Leo Tolstoy or Alexander Pushkin. He'd come to Moscow to play chess, to cross p.a.w.ns with a serious Russian tournament player. And every spare minute he spent there he wanted to be engaged in chess, hopefully playing with the highest-rated masters in the country. Moscow was the city where the great tournament of 1925 had been played; where Alekhine had become a grandmaster; where most of the world's top masters played, learned, and lived; where the World Championship had been held only a few months prior. For Bobby, Moscow was the Elysium of chess, and his head was spinning with the possibilities.

Spurning Abramov's offer of an introduction to the city, Bobby asked to be brought immediately to the Tsentralny Shakhmatny Klub, the Moscow Central Chess Club, said to be one of the finest in the world. Virtually all of the strongest players in Moscow belonged to the club, which had been opened in 1956 and boasted a library reported to consist of ten thousand chess books and over one hundred thousand index cards of opening variations. Bobby simply couldn't wait until he saw it all.

Upon arriving at the club's headquarters on Gogolsky Boulevard, Bobby was first introduced to two young Soviet masters, both in their early twenties: Evgeni Vasukov and Alexander Nikitin. He began playing speed chess in rotation with both, in a hallway on the first floor of the club, and won every game. Lev Khariton, a Soviet master, then a teenager, remembered that a crowd gathered. Everyone wanted to see the American wunderkind. "There was a certain loneliness about him hunched above the board," said Khariton.

"When can I play Botvinnik [the World Champion]?" Bobby asked, using a tone that was almost a demand. "And Smyslov [Botvinnik's most recent challenger]?" He was told that because it was summer, both men were at their dachas, quite a distance from Moscow, and unavailable. It may have been true.

"Then what about Keres?"

"Keres is not in the country."

Abramov later claimed that he'd contacted several grandmasters but had made little progress in finding an opponent of the caliber that Fischer was insisting on. True or not, Abramov was becoming more than annoyed by Bobby's brashness and frequent distemper. Bobby begrudgingly met the weight lifters and Olympians he was introduced to, but he seemed bored by it all. The Russians began calling him Malchick Malchick or "Little Boy." Although it was an affectionate term, to a teenager it could be considered an insult. Bobby didn't like the implication. or "Little Boy." Although it was an affectionate term, to a teenager it could be considered an insult. Bobby didn't like the implication.

Finally, Tigran Petrosian was, on a semi-official basis, summoned to the club. He was an international grandmaster, known as a colorless player but he was almost scientifically precise, and one of the great defensive compet.i.tors of all time. He was also an extraordinarily powerful speed player. Bobby knew of him, of course, having played over his games from the Amsterdam tournament of 1956 and also from seeing him from afar at the USA-USSR match in New York four years earlier. Before he arrived, Fischer wanted to know how much money he'd receive for playing Petrosian. "None. You are our guest," Abramov frostily replied, "and we don't pay fees to guests."

The games were played in a small, high-ceilinged room at the end of the hallway, probably to limit the number of spectators, which had grown to several dozen while Bobby was playing the younger men. The contest with the Russian grandmaster was not a formal match, but consisted of speed games, and Petrosian won the majority. Many years later, Bobby indicated that during those speed games Petrosian's style of play had bored him "to death," and that was why he'd wound up losing more than he won.

When the Soviet Union had agreed to invite Bobby to Moscow, and generously pay all expenses for him and his sister, he was granted a visa that was good for only twenty days. Regina, though, wanted him to stay in Europe until the Interzonal in Portoro began, and because of a lack of funds she was trying to get both his visa and his guest status extended. She wanted him to have a European experience and sharpen his use of foreign languages, which she kept insisting was so vital for his education. Plus, she knew that he wanted to play chess against the better Soviet players as training before he entered the Interzonal. It wasn't to happen, however.

When Bobby discovered that he wasn't going to play any formal games, but simply speed chess, he went into a not-so-silent rage. He felt that he wasn't being respected. Wasn't he the reigning United States Champion? Hadn't he played "The Game of the Century," one of the most brilliant chess encounters ever? Hadn't he played a former World Champion, Dr. Max Euwe, just a year earlier? Wasn't he the prodigy predicted to become World Champion in two years?

A certain monarchic att.i.tude seized him: How could they possibly refuse him him, the Prince of Chess? This was no trivial setback, no mere snub; it was, to Bobby, the greatest insult he could imagine. He reacted to that insult, from his point of view, proportionately. It seemed obvious to him that the reason the top players wouldn't meet him was because, on some level, they were frightened of him. He likened himself to his hero Paul Morphy, who for the same reason, on his first trip to Europe in 1858 exactly one hundred years before, was denied a match with the Englishman Howard Staunton, then considered the world's greatest player. Chess historians and critics believed that twenty-one-year-old Morphy would have easily beaten Staunton. And fifteen-year-old Fischer firmly believed that if he were given a chance to meet Mikhail Botvinnik, the World Champion, the Soviet player would be defeated.

As the reality set in that Bobby would not soon-not in the next several days, at least-be meeting the giants of Russian chess and triumphing over them, and that while in the Soviet Union he'd receive no financial reward for his playing, the Soviets ceased to be his heroes; rather, they became his betrayers, never to be forgiven. He made a comment in English, not caring that the interpreter could hear and understand it-something to the effect that he was fed up "with these Russian pigs." She reported it, although years later Abramov said that the interpreter confused the word "pork" for "pigs" and that Bobby was referring to the food he was eating at a restaurant.

Certainly, Bobby didn't help himself with a postcard he sent to Collins: "I don't like Russian hospitality and the people themselves. It seems they don't like me either." Before the postcard was delivered to New York, it was read by Russian censors, and Bobby's intemperate response found its way into the Soviet press. Fischer's request for an extended visa was denied, and what would be his lifelong, not-so-private war with the Soviet Union had commenced.

Bobby's situation aside, it was becoming difficult at that time for any any United States citizen to remain in Moscow. In mid-July, one hundred thousand irate Soviet citizens, inflamed by the government-controlled press, besieged the American emba.s.sy on Tchaikovsky Street, demanding that the United States withdraw its troops from Lebanon. Windows were broken, and outside the building an effigy of President Eisenhower was burned. United States citizen to remain in Moscow. In mid-July, one hundred thousand irate Soviet citizens, inflamed by the government-controlled press, besieged the American emba.s.sy on Tchaikovsky Street, demanding that the United States withdraw its troops from Lebanon. Windows were broken, and outside the building an effigy of President Eisenhower was burned.

The situation was serious enough that Gerhardt Fischer, Bobby's father of record, feared Joan and Bobby might be in great danger. Using his South American name of Gerardo Fischer, he wrote in German to Regina from Chile voicing his worries. He fretted that the children might have been kidnapped because no one had heard from them. He asked Regina what she was going to do to get Joan and Bobby out of the country. He said that if he didn't hear soon, he'd try to do what he could, but he also added-somewhat mysteriously-that he didn't want to get into trouble himself.

Just as Regina was beginning to panic, she received a cable from the Yugoslavian chess officials stating that they would not only receive Bobby and Joan as early guests before the Interzonal, but they'd also set up training matches for Bobby with top players. For her part, Joan Fischer, who'd gotten into some spats with her brother over his behavior while in Moscow, accompanied him to Belgrade but left after two days to spend the rest of the summer with friends in England. Fifteen-year-old Bobby was, thus, left to fend for himself-but not for long. He was surrounded by chess officials, players, journalists, and the merely curious, and within hours of touching down in Yugoslavia he was at the board playing, a.n.a.lyzing, and talking chess.

Bobby's training match opponent in his first formal game on European soil was Milan Matulovic, a twenty-three-year-old master who would become infamous in the chess world for sometimes touching a piece, moving it, and then-realizing it was either a blunder or a weak move-returning the piece to its original square, saying, "J'adoube," "J'adoube," or "I adjust," and moving it to another square or moving another piece altogether. The or "I adjust," and moving it to another square or moving another piece altogether. The "j'adoube" "j'adoube" statement is the customary announcement when a player wishes to center or adjust one of his or his opponent's pieces, but according to the Laws of Chess this must be done statement is the customary announcement when a player wishes to center or adjust one of his or his opponent's pieces, but according to the Laws of Chess this must be done before before touching the piece, or the mover risks yielding a forfeit. French players would often say, touching the piece, or the mover risks yielding a forfeit. French players would often say, "Piece touchee, piece jouee" "Piece touchee, piece jouee" ("if you touch a piece, you move it"). Matulovic ("if you touch a piece, you move it"). Matulovic "j'adoubed" "j'adoubed" his pieces his pieces after the fact after the fact so often that years later he earned the nickname "J'adoubovic." In contrast, Bobby was strictly observant of this rule and said so often that years later he earned the nickname "J'adoubovic." In contrast, Bobby was strictly observant of this rule and said "j'adoube" "j'adoube" first whenever he touched a piece to straighten it. Once he was even heard to say it, with a smile on his face, when he casually jostled someone at a tournament. first whenever he touched a piece to straighten it. Once he was even heard to say it, with a smile on his face, when he casually jostled someone at a tournament.

In his first encounter with Matulovic, Bobby ignored the Yugoslav's mischievous disregard of the rules and lost the game. So with three games left to play, Bobby told Matulovic he'd no longer accept any bogus "j'adoubes." "j'adoubes." Bobby won the second game, drew the third game, and won the fourth, and therefore won the match at 21. Both of Bobby's wins were hard fought and went to fifty moves before his opponent resigned. Matulovic may have been a trickster, but he was also one of his country's finest players, not easily defeated. Bobby felt that this victory was significant enough to write to Collins about. Bobby won the second game, drew the third game, and won the fourth, and therefore won the match at 21. Both of Bobby's wins were hard fought and went to fifty moves before his opponent resigned. Matulovic may have been a trickster, but he was also one of his country's finest players, not easily defeated. Bobby felt that this victory was significant enough to write to Collins about.

Bobby then played one of the most colorful Yugoslavian masters, Dragoljub Janosevic, a heavy drinker, womanizer, and poker player, and more of a Damon Runyon character than a stereotypical chess player. He was a forceful and attacking opponent, but in a two-game match, Bobby held his own and drew both games.

Bobby cracked open his suitcase, weighed down with about fifty pounds of books and chess magazines, and prepared for the tournament to come, going over lines and variations, and a.n.a.lyzing the tactics of the opponents he'd be facing. Of the twenty players he was to meet, he'd competed against only three: Benko, Sherwin, and Petrosian. But the other seventeen were no strangers. For years he'd been studying the nuances of their games: their styles, opening preferences, strengths and weaknesses. For example, he knew how Fridrik Olafsson almost always drifted into time trouble and so might not play the end game so precisely; how Bent La.r.s.en could be counted on to trot out a forgotten opening from long ago as a surprise. These unexpected jolts from La.r.s.en were difficult to prepare for, but Bobby's continuous study of the old masters left him relatively forearmed. There wasn't one player in the upcoming Interzonal that Bobby wasn't somewhat prepared to meet.

For reference, there was his talismanic Lipnitsky on which to rely, and the latest edition of Modern Chess Openings Modern Chess Openings, which had thousands of games and variations. He confronted the board in the evenings after dinner, with his transistor radio playing whatever kind of music he could tune in to, and he usually continued his study until dawn, falling asleep as it became light. He rarely woke until sometime in the early afternoon. The only times he left the hotel were to play the two matches and once when a good friend, Edmar Mednis (a young American player en route to another tournament and only in the city for one day), visited him and convinced him to take a long walk through several of Belgrade's parks.

Moving from the historic and somewhat somber city of Belgrade to Yugoslavia's resort town of Portoro, on the coast of the Adriatic Sea, to play in the Interzonal didn't appear to have much effect on Bobby. He seemed to be uninterested in the beach that was just steps away from the hotel, or the outdoor cafes that faced the Gulf of Trieste and played host to both locals and tourists, who'd gather in the evenings for al fresco dining and a view of the stunning sunset. During the month that he played in the tournament, Bobby was rarely seen outside of the hotel: He spent most of the time holed up in his room, weighing strategy and tactics.

Twenty-one players from a dozen countries had qualified to play in this march, toward an opportunity to earn a place at the next plateau. The six players with the highest scores would then be joined by two top players who were seeded into the ultimate play-off, the Candidates (also known as the Challengers) tournament. The winner would then play a match with the reigning World Champion, Mikhail Botvinnik, to seek the t.i.tle. Although the Interzonal was Bobby's first international tournament, he wasn't alone in this status; twenty-two-year-old Mikhail Tal of Riga, who'd twice won the USSR championship, was also playing in his first international. Some pundits, not just from the Soviet Union, were forecasting Tal to be the winner. Top players in the United States predicted that Bobby wouldn't qualify for a place in the Candidates this time. He was just too young to conquer enough of the tournament veterans-each with years of experience in international compet.i.tion.

Folke Rogard, the Swedish president of the World Chess Federation, welcomed the players, their seconds and trainers at the formal opening ceremonies, saying, "It is sufficient evidence of the widespread popularity of the game of chess in the last few decades and the way the strength of play has grown in pace with it, that the Interzonal tournament at Portoro can compare in respect of strength of play with many of the grand tournaments which we recall from an earlier period."

Bobby, though, seemed to feel that he'd make short work of his compet.i.tors. He predicted that he'd wind up as one of the Candidates and that his method of qualification would be to beat all of the "small-fry" or "patzers" and then draw with all of the top players. The flaw in this plan was that there were really no feeble players in the tournament; they were all, if not world cla.s.s, then at least of national or international renown.

Bobby's aide or so-called second at the tournament was his close friend and fellow Jack Collins student William Lombardy, a portly twenty-year-old seminarian who was studying to become a Roman Catholic priest. Lombardy had captured the World Junior Championship by winning every game, and he was a formidable player. He was so solid in his ability, so sure of himself on the board, that Fischer once described him as playing "like a house." At that time in the United States, Lombardy was in ability only slightly behind Fischer himself.

In chess, a second's job is to be an attendant, advisor, advocate, and majordomo for the player he serves. Many seconds pay particular attention to the openings of the other players and attempt to scout out any weaknesses. They then report back, round by round. Perhaps the most most important role for a second is a.n.a.lyzing adjourned positions jointly with the player. Sometimes this means all-night sessions, so that the player has a variety of tactics to employ when play is resumed the next day. Soviet players were traditionally serviced by a team of seconds, each performing an a.s.signed task. For example, there could be an endgame specialist, an opening theoretician, a physical trainer, a "go-for," and sometimes a psychologist. important role for a second is a.n.a.lyzing adjourned positions jointly with the player. Sometimes this means all-night sessions, so that the player has a variety of tactics to employ when play is resumed the next day. Soviet players were traditionally serviced by a team of seconds, each performing an a.s.signed task. For example, there could be an endgame specialist, an opening theoretician, a physical trainer, a "go-for," and sometimes a psychologist.

Acting and looking older, and being highly intelligent, Lombardy treated Bobby in a parental and nurturing way. From Portoro he wrote to Regina of his charge: "Bobby brushes his teeth daily but has more difficulty in taking a bath." Lombardy also conveyed his initial impressions of Portoro: If you have never seen a great international tournament such as the one in Portoro, then you might be interested in hearing something about this great chess cla.s.sic. Extraordinary things happen in connection with such an event that do not exactly have anything to do with tournament itself. The Portoro tourney is of a type that should make for interesting and exciting chess as only six are permitted to go to the World Championship Challengers Tournament. It seems, however, to work au contraire au contraire. A great tension hangs overhead. The players are nervous, and many get into extreme time pressure. As a result, the games have not been especially brilliant for a tournament of this cla.s.s.

Regina wrote to Joan that she was worried Lombardy might be d.a.m.ning Bobby with faint praise. "He's good at that," she wrote. But there was no evidence that Lombardy, known for his acerbic tongue, was antagonistic toward Bobby. On the contrary, the older player always showed the younger one affection and respect, often sending him friendly little notes and asides. The two young men shared almost all of the major holidays together, usually at the Collins home. James T. Sherwin, the other American in the Interzonal, recalled that Lombardy was supposed to be his his second as well. "Bobby really didn't need Lombardy since their styles were so dissimilar. Lombardy was an enormously gifted, intuitive positional player but not a well-prepared player like Bobby. Bobby's strength was the inexorability of his tactics." second as well. "Bobby really didn't need Lombardy since their styles were so dissimilar. Lombardy was an enormously gifted, intuitive positional player but not a well-prepared player like Bobby. Bobby's strength was the inexorability of his tactics."

One difficulty arose when Lombardy had to leave the tournament for several days and attend the World Chess Federation annual meeting as the U.S. representative, leaving Bobby without a second. Bobby had two adjournments to play and a.n.a.lyze by himself. He lost to Olafsson and drew with Tal.

In a pre-tournament conversation with Bent La.r.s.en of Denmark and Fridrik Olafsson of Iceland, Lombardy reported the following remarks about his friend Bobby: La.r.s.en: Fischer is one baby I am going to spank. Fischer is one baby I am going to spank.Olafsson: Don't be too sure. Be careful! Don't be too sure. Be careful!La.r.s.en: Don't worry, I can take care of myself. Don't worry, I can take care of myself.

Scrubbed clean at Lombardy's behest, Bobby was dressed in a dark shirt and starched khaki pants for the first evening of play. His opponent was the stocky Oleg Neikirch of Bulgaria, one of the oldest players in the tournament (he was forty-four) and considered, by Bobby's standards, a small-fry. Nevertheless, perhaps because of first-night board fright, Bobby underestimated his opponent but was lucky to coax a draw from Neikirch, even though Bobby had an inferior game. With tongue in cheek, Neikirch explained his draw offer: "It's sort of embarra.s.sing to defeat a boy. Back in Bulgaria I would be the laughing-stock of everybody." But it would be more embarra.s.sing to lose lose to a boy, clucked the scoffers. As for the to a boy, clucked the scoffers. As for the New York World-Telegram New York World-Telegram, it proclaimed that Bobby's managing to avoid a loss in his first European tournament "highlighted a noteworthy turn in chess history."

Bobby's play was spotty in the first several games of the tournament, as he attempted to find his chess legs. After the Neikirch game, he won one, lost one, and drew one. FISCHER OFF FORM IN DEBUT ABROAD FISCHER OFF FORM IN DEBUT ABROAD, blared a headline in The New York Times The New York Times. It wasn't until the sixth round, at which point Bobby had barely compiled an even score, that he was tested by one of the true greats of the game, David Bronstein of the Soviet Union.

Bronstein looked like what one might picture a chess player to look like. Bald-pated, with horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, and often dressed in a black suit and white shirt, he was actually the prototype of the grandmaster character Kronsteen in the James Bond film From Russia with Love From Russia with Love (except that Kronsteen had hair), and the game played on-screen in that film was based on a real one Bronstein had played against Spa.s.sky. But despite his mien of seriousness and inapproachability, Bronstein was friendly, animated, and liked by virtually all the other players, owing to his cordiality, immense knowledge of the game, and a certain intellectual eccentricity. He was a fiercely attacking player, but at the board he'd often seem as if in a trance. In one game he actually stared at the position for fifty minutes before making a move. On paper and through reputation, Bronstein and Smyslov, both of whom had played against Botvinnik for the World Championship, were considered the favorites at Portoro (though some contended Tal should be a favorite as well). Bronstein had tied Botvinnik in their 1951 match for the World Championship, but Botvinnik retained the t.i.tle as sitting champion. The rules of the World Chess Federation required a challenger to (except that Kronsteen had hair), and the game played on-screen in that film was based on a real one Bronstein had played against Spa.s.sky. But despite his mien of seriousness and inapproachability, Bronstein was friendly, animated, and liked by virtually all the other players, owing to his cordiality, immense knowledge of the game, and a certain intellectual eccentricity. He was a fiercely attacking player, but at the board he'd often seem as if in a trance. In one game he actually stared at the position for fifty minutes before making a move. On paper and through reputation, Bronstein and Smyslov, both of whom had played against Botvinnik for the World Championship, were considered the favorites at Portoro (though some contended Tal should be a favorite as well). Bronstein had tied Botvinnik in their 1951 match for the World Championship, but Botvinnik retained the t.i.tle as sitting champion. The rules of the World Chess Federation required a challenger to win win the match, not merely draw it, to gain the t.i.tle. the match, not merely draw it, to gain the t.i.tle.

Because of a lack of air-conditioning in the hall, both Fischer and Bronstein arrived in short-sleeved shirts: white for Bronstein, beige for Fischer. Fischer had publicly announced before the tournament that there might be one player who could defeat him: Bronstein. And, in fact, Bobby had diligently prepared for his opponent's onslaughts.

Fischer's and Bronstein's places at the table were indicated by a small American flag on Bobby's side and an equally small Soviet flag on the opposite side. Fischer plunged into the game with his trusted and thoroughly a.n.a.lyzed opening, the Ruy Lopez, instantly seizing the initiative and generating pressure in the center squares.

The game was a struggle, however, and he found himself in time trouble. It wasn't the tactical possibilities that made him consume time, but the long, drawn-out endgame position, rife with complications. He desperately wanted to win against Bronstein for many reasons: to prove to himself that he could do it; to prove to others, especially those in the tournament, that he was capable; to demonstrate to the world that he was as great a chess player as anyone. But the clock, the clock! Time was ebbing.

To limit the time that a game of chess may take-and to establish equality between players so that, for example, one doesn't take hours to make a move and the other only minutes-a special chess clock is used in tournaments. Actually, two two clocks are utilized, one for each player. In that way players can budget their time in whatever way they wish. For example, they can take a few seconds on one move and perhaps thirty-five minutes on another-as long as all the moves are made within the period specified by the tournament organizers. In this Interzonal, the time limit was forty moves in two and a half hours and sixteen moves per hour thereafter. When a player made a move, he depressed a b.u.t.ton on top of his clock, which stopped his device and started his opponent's. Both players were required to keep a record of their moves to prove, if necessary, that they'd complied with the time limit. clocks are utilized, one for each player. In that way players can budget their time in whatever way they wish. For example, they can take a few seconds on one move and perhaps thirty-five minutes on another-as long as all the moves are made within the period specified by the tournament organizers. In this Interzonal, the time limit was forty moves in two and a half hours and sixteen moves per hour thereafter. When a player made a move, he depressed a b.u.t.ton on top of his clock, which stopped his device and started his opponent's. Both players were required to keep a record of their moves to prove, if necessary, that they'd complied with the time limit.

With only seconds to spare, Bobby just barely made his fortieth move against Bronstein before his flag fell, which otherwise would have caused him to be forfeited. He played one more move, and the game was then adjourned to be resumed the next day. That evening, he and Lombardy went over the endgame position, which consisted of both Bobby and Bronstein having a rook, a bishop, and an equal number of p.a.w.ns. Although this position would result in a draw in most cases, the two young American colleagues searched for hours for any possibility that Bobby could squeeze out a win when play resumed.

The next day, when Fischer and Bronstein continued the game, both men parried for twenty more moves. Bronstein lost a p.a.w.n and began to check Fischer's king over and over again. Fischer could make no headway. The game was declared a draw through the special rule of repet.i.tion-that is, when a position comes about three times, not necessarily in succession, the game is automatically a draw.

A cynic once said that the most difficult part of success is finding someone who is happy for you. That wasn't the case with Bobby's draw against Bronstein. At the Marshall Chess Club, where players were a.n.a.lyzing the Interzonal games as they were cabled in from Portoro, there was near-delirium when word arrived of the draw. "Bronstein?!" "Bronstein?!" people were saying incredulously, almost whooping, as if the Soviet player were Goliath, and Bobby as David had stood up to him piece for piece, p.a.w.n for p.a.w.n. people were saying incredulously, almost whooping, as if the Soviet player were Goliath, and Bobby as David had stood up to him piece for piece, p.a.w.n for p.a.w.n. "Bronstein!? The genius of modern chess!" "Bronstein!? The genius of modern chess!" The impossible had occurred: A fifteen-year-old had managed to draw against perhaps the second or third strongest player in the world. So great was the impact of that game that club members began planning a party for the returning hero, even if he hadn't actually qualified as a Candidate yet. In their minds people began rehearsing champagne toasts. And the process of mythologizing Bobby commenced in earnest. Stories were offered of how a certain club member had once played Bobby when he was a child, or was an eyewitness when he played "The Game of the Century," or shared a hot dog and orange drink with him at the Ned.i.c.k's stand in Herald Square. The impossible had occurred: A fifteen-year-old had managed to draw against perhaps the second or third strongest player in the world. So great was the impact of that game that club members began planning a party for the returning hero, even if he hadn't actually qualified as a Candidate yet. In their minds people began rehearsing champagne toasts. And the process of mythologizing Bobby commenced in earnest. Stories were offered of how a certain club member had once played Bobby when he was a child, or was an eyewitness when he played "The Game of the Century," or shared a hot dog and orange drink with him at the Ned.i.c.k's stand in Herald Square.

Expectations now changed, not only for Bobby's future, but for American chess itself. Could this precocious Brooklyn boy not just become a Candidate but possibly win win the tournament? Was American chess about to soar on the wings of Bobby's fame? the tournament? Was American chess about to soar on the wings of Bobby's fame? "Bronstein!" "Bronstein!"

Although it was only the sixth round out of twenty-two, for Bobby everything that followed from Bronstein was an emotional anticlimax. He tried to keep his focus, but it was difficult. On days off in Portoro, during the rare times he wandered into public view, Bobby was continually asked for his autograph or to pose for a photo. At first he liked the attention, but it annoyed him that the attention was constant, and he grew to hate it. At least twice, he was swallowed up in a throng of fans, and in both cases he became almost hysterical in his attempts to wrest himself free. He set a self-imposed policy: He'd sign autographs only after after each game (as long as he didn't lose or wasn't upset over how he played) and only for a period of about five minutes, for the chess players a.s.sembled there. Sometimes, he'd sit in the theater seats after a game, and literally hundreds of people would hand their programs to him for his reluctantly scrawled signature. each game (as long as he didn't lose or wasn't upset over how he played) and only for a period of about five minutes, for the chess players a.s.sembled there. Sometimes, he'd sit in the theater seats after a game, and literally hundreds of people would hand their programs to him for his reluctantly scrawled signature.

Eventually, he asked the tournament organizers to rope off the area around his board, because the crowds would gather and gape, often for hours at a time, while he was playing. He complained that he couldn't concentrate. When he was in the streets, he'd ask autograph requesters if they played chess, and if they didn't, he refused to sign and disdainfully walked away. Continually besieged by newsmen, photographers, and autograph hunters, he finally put a stop to it all: By the midpoint of the tournament he wouldn't pose for a photo, sign his autograph, or answer any question.

Aside from his heroics against Bronstein, the tournament wasn't going quite the way Bobby had planned. He lost or drew to some of the "small-fry," including multiple players from Argentina, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. However, his draws against superstar Tal; his erstwhile Moscow Chess Club opponent Tigran Petrosian; and Svetozar Gligoric of Yugoslavia were all great accomplishments, as was his win against La.r.s.en of Denmark. Years later, Fischer would judge the La.r.s.en game one of the best he ever played. "Fischer won with amazing ease," bleated Chess Review Chess Review.

Against Olafsson Bobby fared more poorly. He didn't try to rationalize that loss (though he did think that he could have won the game). Writing to Collins, he explained: "I never should have lost.... I played the black side of Lipnitsky's thing [and here he gave the moves]. Anyway, I had a good opening. He sacked [sacrificed] the exchange for a p.a.w.n, but after winning the exchange, I blundered, and the game was about even. But (again) I got into time pressure, and played a series of weak moves in a row, and by adjournment he had two connected pa.s.sed p.a.w.ns which could not be stopped."

Bobby's last game of the tournament was with Gligoric, one of the strongest players outside of the Soviet Union. If Bobby lost that game, and others won who were only a half point behind him on the cross table (a scoreboard-like tally of who played whom and the results), he wouldn't be invited to the Candidates tournament. Because of his high score, Gligoric was already a.s.sured a berth in the Candidates, so he could easily offer Fischer an early "grandmaster draw" and coast to a successful denouement. Instead, he played for a win, sacrificing a knight, but ultimately winning back three p.a.w.ns in exchange. Bobby withstood a relentlessly hara.s.sing attack, but always found a way to defend. On Gligoric's thirty-second move, the Yugoslav looked up from the board and said, "Remis?" "Remis?" Fischer knew the French word for "draw," and he immediately consented. "n.o.body sacrifices a piece against Fischer," he brashly declared, grinning slightly as he said it. Fischer knew the French word for "draw," and he immediately consented. "n.o.body sacrifices a piece against Fischer," he brashly declared, grinning slightly as he said it.

Drawing his last game and coming in sixth, Bobby Fischer became the youngest chess player ever to qualify to play in the Candidates tournament, and the youngest international grandmaster in the history of the game. Some were even calling him the Mozart of chess. Normally quite restrained in its chess reporting, The New York Times The New York Times was exuberant in running a salute to Bobby on its editorial page: was exuberant in running a salute to Bobby on its editorial page: A CHEER FOR BOBBY FISCHERChess fans all over the United States are toasting Bobby Fischer and we are happy to join in the acclaim. At 15, this youngster from Brooklyn has become the youngest international grand master in chess and has qualified for next year's tournament to decide who shall meet Mikhail Botvinnik for the world's chess championship. Those who have followed Bobby's stirring matches in the compet.i.tion just concluded in Yugoslavia know that he gave an exhibition of skill, courage and determination that would have done credit to a master twice his age. We are rightfully proud of him.

Though he'd only been gone from the United States two months, Bobby had taken from his compet.i.tive experiences more than just bragging rights. His new maturity was noticeable. When asked by a reporter in Portoro whether he was looking forward to playing the World Champion, he said, "Of course I would like to play Botvinnik. But it's too early to talk about that. Remember, next year I will have to attend the tournament of Candidates before I can think of meeting Botvinnik." Reflecting for a moment, he added, "One thing is certain-I am not going to be a professional chess player."

Bobby felt manhandled in both Moscow and Portoro, and his receiving only $400 for six weeks of effort at the Interzonal ("Every chess game is like taking a five-hour final exam," he said) discouraged him. The fact that he was now an international grandmaster and was eligible to compete for the World Championship made him feel accomplished, but he wondered how he could possibly make a living playing chess. Outside of the Soviet Union, where chess masters were comfortably supported by the state, no chess player could survive on his tournament winnings. There were were some Americans who were chess professionals, but none made a living from tournament winnings alone. Rather, they put food on the table by teaching chess, giving exhibitions, operating chess parlors, selling chess sets, and writing books and magazine articles that received small advances. some Americans who were chess professionals, but none made a living from tournament winnings alone. Rather, they put food on the table by teaching chess, giving exhibitions, operating chess parlors, selling chess sets, and writing books and magazine articles that received small advances.

It was an insecure life.

Bobby was met at Idlewild (which was later renamed John F. Kennedy International Airport) by his mother, sister Joan, and Norman Monath, an editor at Simon & Schuster who was putting the final touches on Bobby's first book of annotated games, called appropriately Bobby Fischer's Games of Chess Bobby Fischer's Games of Chess. "He looks as skinny as a rail," Regina said upon beholding her famous son, and she almost burst into tears. All four tumbled into a limousine, and on the ride to Brooklyn, Monath talked to Bobby about the book, getting his opinion as to whether the publication date should be postponed slightly, until such time as his twenty Interzonal games could be included. In its original conception, the book had only contained thirteen games and the working t.i.tle was just that: Thirteen Games Thirteen Games. The plan was to focus it on Bobby's efforts in the 1957 U.S. Championship, with the teenager annotating each game. Later "The Game of the Century" from 1956 was added. By including the Interzonal games, the book would acquire some needed bulk and, presumably, be more valuable. Even with with the Interzonal games, the finished tome was only ninety-six pages. the Interzonal games, the finished tome was only ninety-six pages. Thirteen Games Thirteen Games, had it remained as thirteen games only, would have appeared to be just a shade more than a monograph.

Upon arriving at Lincoln Place, Bobby charged up the three flights of stairs, unpacked his satchel, gave his mother a scarf that he'd bought in Brussels ("That looks Continental," he said in a courtly manner, when she tried it on), and, within twenty minutes, was out the door. Monath had him dropped off at the Collins house, and in a matter of seconds, Bobby and Jack were a.n.a.lyzing his games from the tournament. Bobby stayed for hours, and the Collins regulars began to drift in to offer their congratulations, have something to eat, and discuss the losses to Benko and Olafsson. The evening was capped off with Bobby playing dozens of five-minute games with almost all a.s.sembled, one by one.

Bobby entered his junior year at Erasmus several days late, and since his five courses were especially demanding, owing to his having to study for a Regents exam a.s.sociated with each, he quickly fell behind in his work. The officials at the school were accommodating, however, and instead of chastising him for his sometimes shoddy work, they awarded him a gold medal for becoming the youngest grandmaster in history. Additionally, Bobby was profiled in the school newspaper, the Dutchman Dutchman, adding to his student-as-celebrity status.

Six days after Bobby's arrival back in the United States, the Marshall Chess Club followed through on its intentions and held a reception for him with more than one hundred members in attendance. The president of the club, Dr. Edward Lasker, welcomed everyone, thanked them for coming, and then began a litany of Bobby's many accomplishments. Bobby, however, was hardly paying attention. Rather, he was playing speed chess at a side table with several of the young masters, who congregated around him.

To watch Bobby play speed chess was an entertainment in itself, aside from his depth of play. To him, speed games were like playground basketball or street stickball: trash-talking was definitely allowed. At the board, playing a speed game, Bobby was truly in his element, like Michael Jordan soaring for the hoop. Typically, he would crack his knuckles and pursue a humorous strategy of intimidation: "Me?! You play that against Me?!"

"Crunch!" "Zap!"

"With that I will crush you, crush crush you!" you!"

[In a feigned Russian accent] "You are c.o.c.kroach. I am elephant. Elephant steps on c.o.c.kroach."

He would pick up a piece and practically throw it at a square, almost as if he were tossing a dart at a bull's-eye; invariably, it would land in the center of the square. His fingers were long and nimble, and as he moved, his hand quitting the piece with a flourish, he looked like a cla.s.sical pianist playing a concerto. When he made a weak move, which was rare, he'd sit bolt upright and inhale, emitting a sound like a snake's hiss. On the few occasions when he lost lost a speed game, he'd just push the pieces to the center of the board in disgust, his nostrils flaring as if he smelled a bad odor. He maintained that he could tell the strength of a player by the way he handled the pieces. Weak players were clumsy and unsure; strong players were confident and graceful. Sometimes, during a five-minute game, Bobby would get up from the board while his clock was running, go to the soda machine, buy a soft drink, and stroll back to the table, having "wasted" two or three minutes. He'd still win. a speed game, he'd just push the pieces to the center of the board in disgust, his nostrils flaring as if he smelled a bad odor. He maintained that he could tell the strength of a player by the way he handled the pieces. Weak players were clumsy and unsure; strong players were confident and graceful. Sometimes, during a five-minute game, Bobby would get up from the board while his clock was running, go to the soda machine, buy a soft drink, and stroll back to the table, having "wasted" two or three minutes. He'd still win.

A week later Bobby was back at the Marshall to play in the weekly speed tournament-christened the "Tuesday Night Rapid Transit" in homage to the New York City rapid transit subway system. Bobby tied for first with Edmar Mednis, both players scoring 132. Not so ironically, the one game Bobby lost was to his mentor Jack Collins.

Bobby's relationship with Collins was complex. To Collins, Bobby represented a second existence-the boy's career was a vicarious entry to a level of chess mastery he himself would never achieve. But Collins also showed Bobby a father's love, taking pride in all of his accomplishments. He claimed to view Bobby as a surrogate son.

Bobby viewed their relationship differently. He didn't regard Collins as a father subst.i.tute, but as a friend, despite their thirty-year difference in ages. He considered Jack Collins's sister Ethel a friend as well, and he could be even more affectionate toward her at times. Bobby always felt comfortable with both, and at one point when Regina was about to embark on one of her perennial long-term journeys, she suggested that Bobby live with the Collinses. Their apartment was small by American standards, however-even for two people. Adding a third would have been impossible, so the idea never went beyond Regina's wish.

What Collins didn't didn't know was that Bobby would occasionally snipe at him behind his back. The criticisms were purely chess-related. Despite the fact that Collins could occasionally beat Bobby in speed games and even in clocked training games (they never met over the board in a formal tournament), Bobby's opinion of his mentor's prowess-as indeed happened with him and other players-became inexorably linked to what his official rating was. know was that Bobby would occasionally snipe at him behind his back. The criticisms were purely chess-related. Despite the fact that Collins could occasionally beat Bobby in speed games and even in clocked training games (they never met over the board in a formal tournament), Bobby's opinion of his mentor's prowess-as indeed happened with him and other players-became inexorably linked to what his official rating was.

"What's your rating?" is one of the first things players ask each other on meeting for the first time, and whichever player has the lower rating is likely to get a sn.o.bbish reaction from the other and even be shunned, as if belonging to another caste. Fischer's rating reached an average high of 2780. Collins's rating never rose higher than 2400, light-years apart in winning predictability. If the separation in rating points had been minimal, Bobby's opinion of Collins might not have been so deprecatory. Raymond Weinstein, a strong international master and a student of Collins, wrote that he'd been in awe of his teacher until he heard Fischer's unkind remarks about him.

In addition to the rating disparity between mentor and student, Bobby didn't like that Collins was getting publicity from being his teacher, and that other young players were flocking to him for lessons, eager to become the next Bobby Fischer. Bobby, perhaps because of the indigence of his childhood, hated the idea of people making money off his name. As New York master Asa Hoffmann once put it: "If someone was willing to pay $50 for a Bobby Fischer autograph, and you were going to make $5 for introducing the autograph seeker to him, Fischer would want that $5 too, or else he was willing to forfeit the $50."

5.

The Cold War Gladiator

MIKHAIL T TAL'S STARE was infamous, and to some ominous. With his deep brown, almost black eyes, he'd glare so intently at his opponents that some said he was attempting to hypnotize them into making a vapid move. The Hungarian-American player Pal Benko actually donned sungla.s.ses once when he played Tal, just to avoid the penetrating stare. was infamous, and to some ominous. With his deep brown, almost black eyes, he'd glare so intently at his opponents that some said he was attempting to hypnotize them into making a vapid move. The Hungarian-American player Pal Benko actually donned sungla.s.ses once when he played Tal, just to avoid the penetrating stare.

Not that Tal needed an edge. The twenty-three-year-old Latvian native was a brilliant player. Twice champion of the USSR, he'd won the 1958 Portoro Interzonal, becoming a front runner to play the inc.u.mbent t.i.tle-holder, Mikhail Botvinnik, for the World Championship in 1960. Tal's style was filled with wild, inspired combinations, intuitive sacrifices, and pyrotechnics. Handsome, erudite, and a packet of energy, the Latvian was a crowd-pleaser and the darling of the chess world. His right hand was deformed, but it didn't seem to diminish his self-a.s.surance.

Fischer was growing more self-a.s.sured, but his style was strikingly different: lucid, crystal-clear, economical, concrete, rational. J. H. Donner, the gigantic Dutch grandmaster, noted the contrast: "Fischer is the pragmatic, technical one. He makes almost no mistakes. His positional judgment is dispa.s.sionate; nearly pessimistic. Tal is more imaginative. For him, overconfidence is a danger that he must constantly guard against."